a great birthday

thanks to everyone for birthday kisses blown from every direction... i felt like a very lucky gal, especially among those who gathered in person to help me celebrate...

A Pilgrimage to Sadad

For three years now, close friends have insisted that I join them for a respite in their place of origin, a Syriac Orthodox village that is twice named as Sadad in the Bible. Though several Damascenes did not recognize the name of the village when I told them where I was going, it seemed to me that everyone should know about this place that maintains, with nary an investment in cultural heritage, persistent links to its biblical legacy. For instance, my hosts claim to be of Sadad-- both husband and wife were born in the village and can attest to kinship structures that maintain the purity of their ethnic-religious identity. As they tell it, each generation has been born in Sadad. My girlfriend laughed when I told her I was the complete opposite-- a cocktail of persons from different regions and ethnicities in China who immigrated to North and South America (south Caribbean coastline) in the late nineteenth century, not to mention blends of Eastern Europeans who disembarked in Beantown, Mass. about a century ago. Nevertheless, I was recognized by my hosts as a person of the Book, e.g. one of Sammi linguistic descent, and, assuming that I therefore possess intrinsic interest in related matters, they proceeded to identify for me precisely where Sadad appears in the Arabic-language Bible.

I had first heard of Sadad back when we met in 2004 and got a sense of the community when they showed me pictures of their wedding. It truly was a hafla to remember -- more than 1,000 guests with music and dancing until the wee hours of the morning. I had tried to visit Saddad that summer but was held up in Beirut at the time, so it was with great anticipation that I met my friend at Sahat Bab Touma (the Christian area of the Old City). Saddad proved to be well worth the wait -- we settled back comfortably in his newly financed Ford sedan and cruised for an hour or so until we sighted the entrance to the town. Fruit trees -- riman (pomegranate), tin (fig), and mishmish (apricot) dangled over the road with ripe fruit hanging with temptation, making me wonder how Eve was ever seduced by the apple when she had so many other delicacies to nibble on. N. pulled over to the right and showed me a sed, or natural reservoir, that served as the source of water and the cause celebre of Saddad's inhabitance since time immortal. About fifty years ago, the sed dried up and the town began to use another reservoir that continues to supply water and fish (farm-stocked by the Ministry of Agriculture). Yet inexplicably, the water came back this year and now this mythical sed is filled with about 5 feet of water and at least twice as much green algae.

We continued on and N. pointed out all that was "very old," a qualifier which, laughingly, turned into a leitmotif for the weekend. I wasn't able to get a handle on exactly what "very old" could mean in terms of different phases of housing but several of the fourteen churches date back to 1100 AD. Each church is named after a different saint and that evening, during the Festival of St. Sarkis and St. Bakhos which falls on the fourth Sunday after the Festival of the Holy Cross, we visited three of them. I wasn't sure what to expect in terms of a festival, but there was no centralized celebration, ritual gathering of community, or formal preparations (dress, food, etc.). Rather, old and young began to visit churches after sunset and made individual prayers at each altar. Greetings were exchanged communally and people inquired about each other's health, families, and jobs. I was introduced as a close friend (rafeeqa) of both N. and J. from America, and was received warmly with many a handshake. The interior of the churches differed remarkably in just the three that we visited. Due to construction, Mar Girgis (St. Georges) was closed to the public but we picked up a key prior to entry and I was informed that J's grandmother was the guardian of this key until she passed away several years ago, a role that afforded her intimate knowledge of many community relations ;-). This church is known in Saddad for its chandeliers and of the many that hung from the ceiling, one corner chandelier in particular dates back to centuries ago. While paintings on the rear walls of the church had been restored as of four years ago, those on the front walls also bore testimony to the passing of time. As well, R. showed me the baptism chamberpot that has been in use for something like 800 years, up to and including the baptism of both N. and his 3 y.o. daughter. "very old?" "very old."

The two other churches that we visited were linked to the festival -- the very old Mar Bakhos, that is dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Set down into the earthground level with a low ceiling, it was rather scant of ornament, decoration, and lavish investment, and beloved because of this simplicity. Across the street, the main church (Mar Sarkis) was preoccupied with the festive gathering of a youth group (mixed boys and girls of high school age), but we had a chance to look briefly at, you guessed it, more and more ancient paintings. Like in the other churches, the paintings were inscribed with Aramaic, which is still spoken in this town -- although at the present moment, it's understand as a passive language by the older generation rather than an active language by all generations as in Maaloula, a nearby town that's also Syriac Orthodox and on the verge of becoming a household name in the States ("The Bread of Angels" by Stephanie Saldana).

The rest of the evening was filled with the restive activities of weekends in the village -- casual, relaxed conversation punctuated by meals, coffee, and evening walks. I was shown to my bed at 7:30pm, (laughing to myself that this was the same time that the 3 y.o. was being put to bed) but one thing led to another and I finally retired from my hosts at about 1:30am, having fully renewed our friendships.

The next morning came quickly and by noon, we were headed back to Damascus.
But not empty-handed! I fell hard for a certain mezze dish of Sham called makdous, or stuffed eggplant. R. carefully explained to me how she makes this preserved concoction over the course of four days, once a year in the middle of September (about two weeks earlier). The stuffing is attacked first, and this particular variation had red peppers (sweet and hot), almonds, and tomatoes as well as salt, pepper and garlic. These are laid out in the sun to dry for two days. Meanwhile, 30kg of baby eggplants are prepared by salting, soaking, and smushing before also being put in the sun to dry. On the fourth day, the eggplants are split open and stuffed, then stacked thickly in jars with olive oil. Absolutely delicious!

I also became acquainted with a variety of cheese distinct to this region of Homs -- the shanklish. It's basically fermented goat cheese that's rolled in zaatar, itself a very popular spice blend of thyme, sumac, and sesame that one finds all over the region as a topping in all sorts of dishes. Aged about two years, shanklish is as moldy and strong as Danish blue cheese and is excellent when paired with bites of makdoush, or with khubz and a pat of butter. This is certainly the land of finger food!

My lovely hosts also showed me how they make their own araq, and when my Syrian Arabic dialect is good enough, I hope to post the how-to video that we shot in their basement cellar.

My other obsession this weekend was with the construction of houses. New houses, such as the one that houses their barrels of araq, are made from concrete which is a bustling and live industry across the greater region of Syria and Lebanon. What I was primarily interested in, however, was the roofing. Why? According to popular narratives, the dabke (footstomp) dance originated from the communal gathering of village dwellers to make the material for roofs. The sharp, heavy attacks of the footwork are attributed to the stomping of men (and women during wedding parties) as they prepare mud for year-long protection and insulation. I saw several "very old" houses, no longer inhabited of course, that featured this kind of material and design which is associated with rural life. A. took me on several tours to see other roofs which were supported by akhshaab, or criss-crossed wood planks, set in with concrete, as well as small strips of branches bundled together for garden roofing. Each property also featured outside gathering areas covered overhead by latticework that was gracefully draped with grapevines.

Shaabi or Expat? From Jdid El Artouz to Sha'alan

The apartment search... one always hopes to recognize "the find" within the first set of viewings and lucky are we to have found a geminite place. Located in the metropolitan hub of Damascus, Sha'alan, this apartment was released to the market earlier this morning by its former occupant, a BBC journalist. I'll post pictures once we move in but suffice to say it's got everything one could hope for, including a reasonable landlord who took USD 100 off her first asking price without much hassle or negotiation (bargaining strategy #1: the puppy dog eyes of two young female students...) It's equipped with new appliances (stove, fridge, microwave, washing machine, and water cooler) in a kitchen that's not only big enough to prepare for a dinner party but that invites light at any time of day. The salon offers a workspace and new sofas that rest in front of a TV equipped with satellite (standard here, and excellent to practice al-Jazeera Arabic and soap opera Syrian Arabic). The bedrooms are both huge, fully furnished with mirrors, cabinets, nightstands, et al. (far above the standards of any other room I've seen) and distinguished only by the size of windows. A Western-style bathroom.. and did I mention the terrace?!!! gleefully gorgeous, overlooking the cafes and nightlife of Sha'alan and already outfitted with a trim array of plants and greenery. Haram! I'm still trying to catch my breath from this steal!

Returning home to Jdid El Artouz, the suburb that has offered harbor while I look for a place, I did become somewhat wistful of leaving a "real" domestic environment. By this of course I mean local chickpea stands (literally the legumes themselves, washed, salted, and soaked for cooking) and Iraqi samoon stalls (delicious freshly baked bread that bubbles in the brick oven before settling into a round flatbread that's somewhat thicker from the standard Levantine khubz flatbread; comes in a variety of shapes, including a quadrangle (some say oval) shape topped with sesame seeds, of which I picked up two for dinner). And, I suppose, "real" means shaabi, or popular and with the people. I always like to travel deep -- in Chicago, New York, and Spokane as well as Syria -- and brush shoulders, exchange quips, and tour those streets that invite intimacy, however public such may be. Also, Jdid El Artouz is "normal" by which I mean that one leaves behind the airs of a big city such as Damascus. Transactions with shopowners, teens in an internet cafe, etc. are straightforward and helpful without the aggression or attitude that may characterize urban life.

At the same time, people are not curious about me and my presence in this suburb in the same way that people regularly ask about my nationality and ethnic origins in Damascus. Rather, some shopkeepers made it clear that they would prefer for me to pay for my yogurt and leave promptly after our transaction. I could speculate on several reasons for this coldness but ultimately I'm not sure how to interpret my outsider status and the ways in which it's negotiated by our exchange. Jdid El Artouz, so my host tells me, is a very open and mixed middle-class neighborhood in terms of religion and I've seen women walking around alone and unveiled with some frequency (mostly during the daytime), as well as kids playing, older men chatting and taking coffee on terraces and in front of shops, teens hanging together in front of mobile phone shops. Perhaps people wish to preserve that which I'm appreciating right now... and in the face of recent, rapid socio-economic transformation in Syrian society, I wish I could join them.

How did I end up in Jdid El Artouz? Most Damascenes do a doubletake when they hear that I'm staying so far outside the city as this is quite an unusual arrangement not only for a foreigner but for anyone who conducts regular business in the city. When I first arrived here in Damascus on Sept 23, I took a hotel because I simply did not have much time to arrange details when I was trying to leave the States. After signing up for a mobile phone line with Syria's alternate phone company (MTN), I contacted some twenty-something folks (thanks to a good friend in Lebanon) and asked if they knew of any available rooms. One generous soul replied with a better offer -- to stay at his place until I found my own. So here I've been, crashing in this sculptor's studio for several days... I'll certainly miss my time in this creative, earthy space and treasure the friendship that's emerged from our time together. But one must move on... my big thanks to you know who you are!

Ramadan Karim! Damascus and Beirut, a year or so later

This first week has been a flurry of catching up with old friends, apartment hunting, orientation sessions, as well as walking around Damascus and Beirut and letting one layer of memories tease another layer out. I'm far from settling in (didn't sleep in the same bed twice for the first ten days or so...) and have held back from blogging because it turns out to be quite difficult to reclaim oneself from the dizzy state of disorientation that threatens to overwhelm any prior experience of being in the region.

More or less, I"ve been picking up my broken Arabic again, figuring out how to get from A to Z and not realizing it will take an hour longer than planned for, remembering the Olympic sport of "egress" in Damascene public transport (eg getting in and out of microbuses), learning to tune out the constant blare of horns by irritated drivers (this might never become habituated), constantly reminding myself to drink more water, foregoing showers after I forget to turn on the electric water heater, constantly eyeing internet cafes for a wireless connection that has yet to function properly, navigating the Ramadan schedule (more on this below).

I also wondered whether to organize this blog by daily life -- from one day to the next -- or thematically by impressions? Today we begin with the latter:

As I discovered with NYC several years ago, one of the best ways to intimate oneself with a city is to look for housing. And to permit one's instinct to dictate whether one prefers one neighborhood over another, even if the preference is based on superficial impressions and general cluelessness. Finding shelter is more important than withholding judgment!!

So I've decided that I'd love to live in the neighborhood of Afif, also close to Muhajireen. Why here? It's nestled against Mount Kassiyoun and the streets rise steeply from the main drag of Muhajireen, which curves around the mountain's slope. One can also ascend majestically up the stone pedestrian staircases. It's bustling with storefronts that service the local middle-class residents, from fresh produce stands and bodegas to shawarma stalls, pizza huts, and barber/salons. These appear to be mostly services and products for a Syrian-Arab population -- as opposed to Somalian, Nigerian, Malay, Iraqi, Yemeni, Circassian, Armenian, and many other ethno-linguistic minorities that live in greater Damascus. I did notice a sign in Chinese as I passed by service ("ser-vees" a public mini-bus) today but the shop was closed due to Ramadan so perhaps I'll return to check it out.

The shops are tucked into each other with a physical intimacy that differs from, say, Abu Roumanneh or Sahat Maalki which feature tall apartment buildings with extensive roof terraces that border wide, tree-lined avenues. There is an absence of modern sidewalk cafes that one finds in Sha'alan, a destination neighborhood for cosmopolitan youth and emerging entrepreneurs (and expats!). But these neighborhoods are only five minutes away by taxi, or a nice 15-min walk.

I'd looked at two places in Muhajireen last week and been somewhat taken by them. The first was a room in a "beit arabi" or traditional Syrian house that features an inner courtyard with bedrooms, matbakh (kitchen), and hamam (bath) set off from the courtyard, which may feature a fountain or garden that offers shade, respite, and a space to gather. These kinds of residences are normally associated with the "old city" neighborhoods of most Middle Eastern cities. This charming "beit arabi" was all the more charming as several friends who graduated from the Institute of Fine Arts five years ago established an artist's colony and rehabilitated many of its exterior features... oh so bohemian! But a little too much so, as they said that there were still several repairs to be done and I know that I'd prefer a fully functional kitchen (being mostly vegetarian in Damascus is not easily maintained). Also I'm a bit nervous about the winter in Damascus -- supposedly it's very drafty and cold -- and the traditional houses are built to resist summer heat through natural ventilation.

The second place I saw through a local broker. Finding the broker was a small story in itself, a typical "adventure" of a newcomer trying to use her broken Arabic to get around. I arranged an appointment by mobile in Arabic but couldn't understand the exact location of the office, so I hailed a taxi and, as suggested by the broker, called him again. The phone was handed directly to the taxi driver who delivered me promptly to the destination in Muhajireen. I then met with the landlord of the 2-bd flat and he showed me all the features of the residence. Souffage heating (a must in any apartment worth its salt!), one electrical outlet per bedroom, a salon with satellite TV, a Western-style toilet and bathroom (though the tub was about 3/4 size?!), and a large kitchen that overlooks a small garden. I could imagine quiet mornings with coffee... that then proceed out to the cozy strip of Muhajireen where I would catch a service and get caught up in the constant bustle of urban Damascus. Very nice!

But what really clinched my intrigue with this neighborhood was a small exchange today. It's Ramadan in Damascus -- a statement that means nothing and everything. Certainly our daily lives are structured around the setting of the sun and the streets empty out at 6pm as everyone gathers in homes for iftar, the meal that breaks the Ramadan fast. Before iftar, one can purchase all sorts of seasonal sweets and pastries, most of which appear to be a variation of dates, date paste, date syrup, date juice, et al. I was en route to Bab Touma at about 6pm today and asked a woman on the street how I might get to the Christian area by service (all in Arabic of course!) This led to an extensive conversation about which routes were best, where we lived, and how to navigate the city. Meanwhile all the taxis that passed by us were full with passengers and a service refused to show up, so we continued to chat a bit. Finally, we ended up in the same service (to her surprise, as she had claimed that the service I was looking for didn't pass by this intersection). The service climbed up the hill casually and stopped to let off a few passengers, let on some more. We passed by a large mosque next to a shawarma stand that was starting to line up with customers. Men were stepping outside of the mosque door, putting on their shoes, while other men passed by with a large bag of round, flat bread (khubz) resting over the right lower arm. And then, I caught a whiff of hot dates (tammar). "Hajj, b'fadhali!" An affable elder (affectionately called "hajj" in public) held a tray of bite-size pastries -- just enough bite to break the fast -- and passed them to each of us passengers in the service. Mmm.. hot and fresh maamoul and croissant dough! The woman and I looked at each other... "Ramadan Karim!" and she departed with a friendly, crinkly smile for me, and I in return.